i'm here (nothing can harm you)
by inlovewiththeideaoflove
Summary: Near the end of her life, she still thinks of him every day, missing half of her heart. There were other men in her past, but she thinks of them with detachment, in contrast to the warmth and melancholy with which she remembers him. The most painful goodbyes are the ones that are never said and never explained.


**A/N:** I have no idea what this is. I was trying to fall asleep last night, and like any other completely normal person, I wrote a story in my head. This is it. Pretty much AU, Neal hasn't died. It's sort of set in season two, but Killian isn't all revenge-happy. Make sense? Please note _I AM NOT IN ANY WAY OR FORM A FAN OF SWAN THIEF_, but I'm writing what I think Emma feels, not what I want her to feel. So if you are totally 100% all up in that Neal and Emma stuff, you probably won't be hurling lamps at the walls. I promise there's no bashing. But keep in mind, loves, I'm a full supporter of that CS action. Okay. I'd love to know what all y'all think, so give me your reviews. Or prompts. They make me happy.

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She's happy. Maybe not completely, perfectly, and incandescently, but she's happy. And that is a privilege everyone affords her, because she _deserves_ it, _needs_ it. Her smiles become wider, brighter, she allows the self-indulgence. Sometimes the laughter comes from a sordid provenance—a need to feel, to not be so lonely, cold, _despondent_—but it's part of her grieving process. Her parents never protest, try to insert parental authority they never got to use, or tell her she's wrong to move on, to try to _forget_. The pain of remembering is too much—the last few months have been _too much._ She's gratified for the silence. She doesn't think she can take the advice of _True Love_ without completely _breaking_. They wouldn't understand, _no one understands. _She has to look forward, not back. She can't. If only she could explain it to her heart.

_"My heart's darling," he whispers, his cheek against her heartbeat, listening to the steady rhythm. She laughs, runs her hand through his hair, the unforeseen gift of a moment. She's told him his unwavering chivalry has paid off, he's responded with the endearment, the avowal making her heart swell. This wasn't supposed to happen. But it is happening. It _is_. "Always."_

He makes her happy. It was only a natural progression, after all. He'd been a source of comfort, a reassurance when everything seemed _final_. And they had a history. She knows him like she knows herself. It's just as hard as it is easy, but under the _extenuating _circumstances, she tells him she's willing. He agrees—_boy_, does he agree, longing to take whatever she has to offer him, because he wants her, _loves_ her, has for as long as he can remember—and somehow the sense of family that provides, the two of them and Henry, is all she needs. When he proposes, not even a year after—it happens a little too fast, but she needs it—she says yes. She even smiles at his face, his hopeful brown eyes.

_There are no thoughts, only flashing images and tidal surges in her heart. He smirks at her, pantomiming mischief, but she sees no mischief in him, knows he wants this to be slow and savoring. She's almost surprised to admit she agrees, but not really, because deep down in the recesses of her heart she knows this is right, that there's no purpose in running. "You're staring," she says, walking closer. "A pirate likes to admire a thing of beauty, my love," he answers, his unprincipled perusal of her—her angles and curves, pinks and ivories, the spreading flush—impairing every one of her senses, earning him favorable marks, making her weak with need. "Are you going to take me, Captain?" she asks, sultry, nothing like herself. He takes her in his arms, kisses her forehead with an intimacy that hardly seems fit. "I've been searching for you for centuries, darling. I will be bloody well _making love _to you."_

Henry's happy. He bonds with his dad. They watch baseball games on TV, joust with wooden swords in the town square. At breakfast, the three of them have cocoa—only she and Henry share the proclivity for cinnamon. (Neal had declared that Henry's tastes were acquired from his mother's bad influence, Henry had argued that he just didn't understand, and the debate had ended when Neal had carried Henry to the couch and tickled him until his son admitted defeat. She'd smiled a little, happy, because she liked this, the domesticity of her _family_). In bed, her head on his chest, they talk about the exploits of their youth. On hot summer nights, how they'd park the Bug and meander to an old junk yard, eradicate seats from old cars and sleep under the night sky. They talk about finding home, travelling the world—Henry's always wanted to go see the pyramids, convinced they were built by magic, and they're planning the trip. She teases him about the mustache he'd grown in Portland, how it had been so wild and furry it must have had its own full-time gardener. He laughs with her, rubs her arm, kisses her hair.

_The sea is where he goes to think. She soon realizes she's the same way, kindred spirits and all that. She finds him at the docks, eyes searching the horizon. His dark hair reflects the early morning light. She surveys him, all-consuming love for him in her heart. They were made for each other, she was sure of it. He hears her footsteps, turns to face her. "Where've you been?" she asks, smiling uncertainly. "I missed you this morning. You weren't in bed when I woke up." She notices how dark his blue eyes are and pulls her leather jacket closer to her. "Emma," he says, low. He casts a last look at the sea, levels her with his stare. "Run away with me. We'll take the lad, sail into the seas. We'll elope, and it'll be the three of us, a family. The ship will be our home. That's what you want, isn't it? You've thought about it, haven't you?"_

When they decide to be intimate, it's nice, warm. It lacks passion, fire, and never lasts long before he collapses on her, trembling, hair full of sweat. But he's caring and attentive and makes sure she gets as such as she gives. The majority of the time she gleans her own release. When she doesn't, he pays his dues in the form of buying her expensive chocolate and letting her turn off the football game and put on a movie. She never tells him she loves him in the throes of it all, despite the way he reiterates the oath many, many times throughout, but somehow he understands. He knows she loves him, _he can't not_. She has since she met him, stole his car, a young orphan searching for someone to love her, for a home.

_He plans a fishing trip. It's his job now, bringing the catch of the day to market. He likes the sense of duty, how he can provide for himself. It gives him the excuse to take a boat out every week or so, to reunite with the sea, the sea that's in his blood, that will always be a part of him. He's due to deliver five dozen to market in a few days, or else he won't get paid. The weather calls for storms. She tells him not to go. He refutes that he's weathered many a storm. He's outran curses, faced krakens. He's a hell of a captain. It's a matter of pride. She bids him goodbye on the docks. A light rain is falling; her hair blows in the wind. Cupping his face in his hands, she smiles. "Come back to me," she says. He kisses her. "Not a moment will go by when I won't think of you," he whispers into the crook of her neck. "I love you. I love you." She twists the ring he'd given her around her finger as she watches the ship's ascent into the sea, into the storm. The most painful goodbyes are the ones that are never said and never explained._

She's her most happy when she's dreaming. Because she can stop forgetting, stop trying not to notice the looks of commiserating pity she earns from passerby who still associate her with the loss, stop trying to pretend his death didn't happen, that _he_ didn't happen. In dreams, she can be with the man she wants more than anything, a love that endured. Near the end of her life, she still thinks of him every day, missing half of her heart, finds herself wondering, wishing _what if_. There were other men in her past—her husband, boyfriends from years ago, one-night-stands that she never forgot—but she thinks of them with detachment, in contrast to the warmth and melancholy with which she remembers _him_. The man who extends her his arm, lifts half of his mouth in that old familiar smirk, crinkles those blue eyes at her, employs an old-fashioned term of endearment, leads her. The man who tells her that she's the darling of his heart, that he loves her. He never grows old—he stays the way she recalls him, recalcitrant black hair, blue eyes, three-day's worth of stubble. With him, she's completely, perfectly, and incandescently happy. She laughs louder, smiles brighter, loves deeper. It's always been him. Throughout the confinement of marriage and her wanderings as the Savior, she was a lover to the end, and it had always been him.

Every night, before she wakes, he tells her to promise to come back to him, that despite everything, she has to _come back_, to be with him. She promises, fully and wholeheartedly.

She keeps her promise every night.

She lives a long life, a happy one. She wrinkles, ages, forms frown lines and smile lines. She survives Henry's years as a teenager—a kid with that kind of imagination got in more than his fair share of trouble. Neal tells her she's still beautiful to him, but that he might be slightly biased, being her doting husband and all. _He_ tells her that her beauty is wholesome and timeless, that it will never fade despite age or her opposing recriminations, much like _them_.

One night, years after Henry is married—he'd found a sweet girl in college, her name is Tina Bell and she justifies that Tina's parents noticed the resemblance to the fairy from Neverland, saw the opportunity and took it—Neal is out, she falls asleep. This time, when he offers her his arm, smiles his dashing smile, she's transported. She's younger—golden hair falls down her back, skin dusky and glowing, green eyes sharp. Her soul has passed on. She's come back to him, just as she'd promised.

"Emma," he says. "My heart's darling."

_Killian._

This time she agrees to run away with him.

Henry's the one who finds her. She's in bed, cold and still, but a smile on her face he only remembers seeing in the former days of his childhood. He places the hot chocolate with cinnamon he'd brought her on the table, sits beside her, starts crying. He thinks of the woman he'd found in Boston all those years ago, how shocked she'd been to see her son. She'd been the best mom ever.

But he knows she couldn't live forever, that despite the fact she could battle Wicked Witches and Evil Queens and dragons with eight heads and remain unscathed, a broken heart was the Savior's undoing.

Henry knows that she's where she belongs, with _him_, and smiles.


End file.
